


Paint by Numbers

by sifuhotman



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Inarizaki High School, M/M, Pre-Canon, miya atsumu the discount combee shall be my legacy, subtle osamu character study, wholesome miya twins shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifuhotman/pseuds/sifuhotman
Summary: Atsumu tries to get Osamu to dye his hair with him so people can easily tell them apart. Osamu is vehemently against this idea, but begins to reconsider it when Atsumu's new blonde color begins to attract attention—namely that of Suna Rintarou.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 33
Kudos: 353
Collections: SunaOsa





	Paint by Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to say that you should be undergo multiple bleach sessions with dark hair in order to avoid damaging it too much. But I ignored that to make this fic simpler.
> 
> Dye hair responsibly, kids.

Because his twin brother is Atsumu, Miya Osamu has gotten used to reflexively saying one word in response to every bogus idea Atsumu throws at him:

“No.”

This is, of course, followed up with a passionate, “Wadaya mean, _no_?”

“I mean, _no_.”

Atsumu crosses his arms. “We gotta both do it if we want it to look cool.”

“Nothing about ya is cool, loser.” Osamu stuffs his hands in his pockets as Inarizaki High School comes into view. It’s cloudy today, and Atsumu’s cheeks are tinged with a faint pink as he frowns. His dark brown hair hangs in his eyes, and Osamu resists the urge to knock his knuckles against that thick skull of his to knock some sense into him. “I don’t know why ya even try.”

Sometimes it amazes Osamu, how expressive Atsumu is in contrast to him. He sees his own face on another body, and sees it contorting and making all sorts of expressions that Osamu has never made in his life.

Part of it, definitely, is Osamu’s personality. Atsumu functions in a completely different manner than he does, though it’s unclear which is better. Where Osamu is all subtle eye movements and careful twitches of his lips, Atsumu wears his heart on his sleeve. Or his face. Or their face. Whatever.

Another part—and this is Miya Atsumu’s current concern—is that people have a hard time distinguishing them. Osamu finds that being the polar opposite in personality is about the most he can do to help people figure out who’s who. Osamu: the quiet twin. Atsumu: the not-quiet twin.

They used to combat potential mixup by wearing literal t-shirts as kids: t-shirts that said _Osamu_ and _Atsumu._ Then they asked their mother to customize it to their nicknames, _Samu_ and _Tsumu_. It looked as stupid as it sounds. And, even with the stupid t-shirts, people still mixed them up—even their parents. It’s not so bad during the school day, since they’re in separate classes, but where one Miya is, the other can be found nearby, and the constant mixups are inevitable and extremely frequent. So Atsumu, being the moron that he is, thinks he has a viable solution, and pitches it to Osamu on the way to school.

“Samu. Please.”

“No.”

“ _Pretty pretty_ please.”

“ _No_.”

“I’ll buy ya pudding for a whole month.”

“Last time you said that, you ate all of it.”

“Please please please please please please _please_ —”

It’s a known fact that Atsumu does not know how to take no for an answer. Osamu thinks that, most likely, Atsumu’s brattiness and egocentric attitude comes from being allowed to do whatever the hell he wants to do as a setter. Must be nice, being able to get away with being a jackass, simply because of his position on court.

It’s also a known fact that Atsumu has the self-restraint of a chicken.

“For fuck’s sake, Tsumu. I’m not dyein’ my hair, so wouldja cut it out?”

Atsumu groans. He moves to shove Osamu half-heartedly with his hands, but Osamu steps out of the way, sending his brother cursing as he trips over his own feet. Osamu hears, “Miya!” and turns to find Gin waving enthusiastically near the entrance of their high school. Suna stands beside him with a sleepy expression on his face, but he’s always sleepy-looking, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“Mornin’,” Osamu says, but Atsumu merely sulks.

It doesn’t go unnoticed, of course, which is kind of the point. “Uh oh. What’s got Atsumu-kun upset this time?”

Suna rolls his eyes. “Why would you ask that? Now he’s never gonna shut up.”

He looks pointedly at Osamu, who nods. Of all people, Suna gets it, and he understands Atsumu’s usual antics.

Gin, of course, always the nice one, always the peace keeper between the two, has to endure the newest shower of Atsumu’s irritable complaints. “Samu won’t dye his hair with me,” he whines. He ignores Suna’s commentary and jabs an accusatory finger at Osamu. “I told him, ‘Listen, everyone’s always mixin’ us up, and I’m tired of tryna hafta correct them all the time.’ And I’m tired of receivers sendin’ the ball to Samu instead of me. I think changin’ our hair different colors is an easy way to tell us apart.”

Atsumu does have a point, but Osamu refuses to admit it. The fact that their team is so _good_ only makes it worse. Most of the time, his teammates—and Osamu himself—think on instinct, especially with receives. They don’t have time to second-guess where to send their bumps to. The ball often gets bumped in a flying arc to the nearest Miya, evenly split between the two. Osamu doesn’t mind that much, since he’s trying to at least maintain his setting skills. But he also knows it probably pisses Atsumu off, who takes joy and pride in being the starting setter at a powerhouse school despite only being a first year.

“Why don’t you just dye your hair by yourself?” Suna asks, and Osamu sends him a pointed look that says, _Thank you_. “If you wanna do it so bad. As long as one of you has different colored hair, that’s enough.”

“We gotta do it together. Samu and I do _everythin’_ together. You wouldn’t get it. Yer not a twin.”

“Do you _have_ to do this _one thing_ together? Like Suna said, ya don’t have to both dye yer hair.”

“Yes, we do. We gotta.”

“Yer so clingy.” Osamu snorts. “Shave yer head bald, for all I care. I ain’t doin’ it.”

Atsumu complains the entire way to class. It’s no different than usual, but Osamu’s patience is wearing thin. Typically, Atsumu will back off and try again in three to five business days. No, this is a persistent firing of _Why not_ and _Don’t be lame_ and _If you were the one askin’ me I’d do this for ya_.

When they finally split, Osamu is practically shoving him out of the doorway of his classroom, with Suna watching bemusedly as Atsumu attempts to grab a fistful of Osamu’s hair.

“Brown hair is so _boring_ , Samu! Don’t ya care about how ya look? No wonder yer not gettin’ any white day confessions!”

“Last time I checked, ya don’t get any white day confessions, either. Go to class, moron.”

Finally, Atsumu relents, cussing out his brother as he storms down the hall. Osamu slumps at his desk and tilts his head backwards, resting against his chair, and closes his eyes.

“Looks like he really wants you to dye your hair together.” Suna’s voice is soft, a welcome sound as compared to Atsumu’s incessant yelling.

“Not a day goes by where he doesn’t annoy me,” Osamu groans. He can still hear Atsumu’s voice echoing in his skull, and he anticipates hearing more of this later. “This is even worse than the time he tried to get us to get our ears pierced.”

“Still…wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” The bell rings as chairs screech against the hardwood floors, signaling the start of the school day. Osamu is vaguely aware of their teacher’s voice drifting in as she passes by, heading to the front of the room. “In a game, at least, it’ll help people know which direction to send the ball towards.”

“I guess.” Osamu sighs. If Atsumu wants to dye his hair a stupid color, he can do it. There are a million reasons not to—it’s expensive to maintain, selecting a flattering color requires too much consideration, bleach is terrible for hair in general—but mostly, Osamu’s not someone who likes flashy looks or flashy things.

Besides, Suna’s right: Atsumu dying his hair will be enough for people to tell them apart. He could even cut it differently, or—as Osamu had suggested—shave it off. But Atsumu is exactly the kind of person who’d want to make a statement as drastic as possible.

Osamu feels a gentle stir at the crown of his head, a little ticklish, and when he cracks open an eye, he’s surprised to find Suna with his fingers pulling at his hair, examining the dark locks.

Suna squints, and Osamu’s breath catches, though he’s not sure why.

“Your hair is fine the way it is,” Suna says. He twirls a few strands before letting go and settling himself back in his seat. “It suits you.”

Osamu mumbles a thanks, but all he can think is: all the more reason to not dye it, then.

* * *

Throughout the school day, Atsumu texts varying color palettes to the Inarizaki Volleyball Group Chat.

 **so which one do u guys think will match me and samu the best** , he texts. **i like the blonde i think samu should go with red.**

He spams the chat so much about it that their captain kicks him out.

Osamu sends Atsumu a text: **shut up before i shave off ur eyebrows in ur sleep**.

At practice, Atsumu bitches enough that he gets begrudgingly re-added into the chat, but not without the warning that if Atsumu continues to text during class, he’s gonna lose his spot as a starter for the upcoming practice match against Itachiyama.

Atsumu promises he won’t, and begins to send photos of some Kpop boy group with varying hairstyles.

**don’t u guys think samu would look good in purple????**

**not as good as me of course though loloool**.

His teammates strongly consider which colors would match the twins the best. Half of them try to dissuade Atsumu from blonde; the other half thinks he should go for the most platinum blonde he can find. For Osamu, so far, a deep mahogany red is the winner, not that he’s paying attention; he refuses to partake in this discourse. He blocks Atsumu’s number completely, and when he practices his serves, he imagines it’s Atsumu’s stupid dark-haired head he’s smacking across the hardwood floor.

* * *

That evening, Atsumu brings it up at the dinner table. He makes such a big fuss about it that Osamu swears he watches his parents age ten years in about ten minutes.

“If yer not gonna let me dye it,” Atsumu says as he slams a fist on the table with conviction, “then I’ll just do it myself.”

“Atsumu,” their mother warns.

“Good luck with that, dumbass. Yer prolly gonna disintegrate off all yer hair before getting it to whatever piss yellow color ya want.”

“Oi. Take that back.”

“While yer at it, might as well bleach yer caterpillar eyebrows.”

“That’s grand, considering we got the same exact fuckin’ eyebrows.”

Dinner ends prematurely, with Atsumu refusing to look Osamu in the eye as he pouts on his bed, tossing a volleyball up and down. Osamu tries to focus on his readings for class, music blaring from a pair of headphones that he secretly stole from his brother. He doesn’t know why Atsumu’s acting so butthurt about this. He almost feels bad—just bad enough to entertain the thought of dying his hair a whacky color, like green or blue or even pink.

But his scalp tingles, remembering the feeling of Suna’s fingers as they threaded through his hair, and Osamu chastises himself for feeling even a smidge guilty about this kind of thing. He’s allowed to make decisions that go against Atsumu’s wishes, and as they get older, this will only become more and more common. This is a good exercise for them, one that challenges each brother to think and act independently.

So, instead of turning to Atsumu and asking him what’s got him so upset about this, Osamu turns the page of his book and ignores him.

* * *

“There’s a running pool against you, you know.”

Osamu pauses, onigiri halfway to his mouth as he tilts his head in confusion. Suna sips juice as he scrolls through his phone, not even glancing at Osamu’s direction. As usual, they’re eating lunch together in the classroom.

“What pool?”

“About the hair thing.”

Osamu frowns. “Atsumu dyeing his hair?”

“Kinda.” Suna tilts his chair back so far Osamu has a momentary flash of concern that he’ll go tumbling backwards, cracking his skull on the ground. “Ren-senpai started it. Specifically about if-slash-when you get your own hair dyed.” Suna crumples his juice box after draining it. “But don’t tell them I told you.”

“How big is the pool so far?”

“Big enough to make everyone else on the team contribute.”

Unsurprising. “And what’re yer thoughts? Didja place a bet, too?”

Suna merely smirks and shrugs, his default response anytime there’s a question he knows the answer to but doesn’t want to share. It leaves Osamu wondering what Suna really thinks about this whole thing, but more importantly, what Suna thinks of him.

* * *

Atsumu shoves his phone in Osamu’s face as they’re getting ready for practice. Osamu swats him away to pull his gym t-shirt on, but not before catching a glimpse of some famous Asian American actor with hair the color of Heinz mustard.

“This is what I’m gonna get,” Atsumu says. He speaks about a million decibels louder than necessary. “Just so ya know.”

“Does it look like I care?”

“Well.” Atsumu clicks his phone off and slides it into his bag. His needling has dwindled significantly as Osamu has continued to shut him down every time Atsumu broaches this topic once more. “In case ya still wanna. I’m goin’ to the salon this weekend. Made an appointment and everythin’. I’m payin’ for it myself.”

“Good for you,” Osamu drawls. “Maybe after, ya can get around to payin’ me back for all the money ya owe me.”

Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice Osamu’s passive aggressive tone; his selective hearing makes snarky efforts futile. “Just wait ’til next white day when I’m rollin’ in chocolates, and yer sittin’ there with yer dumb black hair on yer head wonderin’ why no one’s confessin’ they’re in love with ya.”

“As if,” Osamu says. Atsumu yells something about how Osamu should get riled up and upset for once, but Osamu waves him off.

Osamu has long since come to accept that he’ll never be as interesting or notable as his brother. It’s a fact, and although he’s just as good at volleyball, Atsumu has a streak of vitality that would overwhelm any normal person. Atsumu thrives off of being the center of attention, and if he wants to use his hair to achieve that, then he can go ahead and do it.

But Osamu is not like that. At least, he doesn’t think he is. They’re part of a matched set on the volleyball court, for sure, and Osamu couldn’t be prouder of being able to terrorize the junior volleyball scene with none other than his twin brother. There are certain levels of mutual understanding and trust that cannot be born overnight nor with hours upon hours of practice—they’re innate, and something that the Miya twins have boasted of since the beginning of their fifteen years on earth.

Outside of volleyball, though, Osamu just _isn’t_ that guy, the guy who wants to be the center of all the newest gossip and news. He’s simple and uncomplicated, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Atsumu wants to drag him along the winding, ridiculous path of being a public figure—or something along those lines. Quite frankly, Osamu’s just not interested. He’s not super interesting, or super original, or anything, really.

If Atsumu is a wild canvas of snarky remarks and impulsive actions and grand gestures, Osamu is a carefully crafted paint-by-numbers guy, mild and responsible but ultimately forgettable. He’s accepted it. Miya Osamu will always settle for the place known as _Atsumu’s twin brother_.

That changes, however, once Atsumu flaunts a shiny crop of blonde hair.

And not in a good way.

* * *

**check out my new do**

A photo in the Inarizaki Volleyball Club group chat: Miya Atsumu with the unmistakeable piss-yellow Osamu previously referenced. It actually doesn’t look bad, although it’s certainly jarring. He’s opted to at least keep the same style, long in the front with a close-cropped undercut, but it’s still a huge departure from how Osamu’s used to seeing his brother. It’s even stranger, knowing it’s also _his_ face with bright blonde hair.

Atsumu basks in the flurry of text messages from their teammates. Osamu ignores the messages directed towards him, asking if he’s going to dye his hair now that Atsumu’s made such a statement. The only thing Osamu notices is that one person does not seem to be responding, and it’s the only person whose opinion, to him, carries any weight. He’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad sign.

He texts back: **u look like a discount combee**.

It earns him a middle finger and a **fuck off samu** , and Gin sends a photoshopped image of Atsumu’s face—including his new hairstyle—on a picture of a combee. Osamu saves it to his phone and laughs, thankful that at least he doesn’t look like a stupid, derpy Pokemon.

He just looks like his plain, typical self.

Atsumu’s hair is as vibrant in person as it is over the phone, which Osamu gets to experience once Atsumu returns from the salon. He keeps fiddling with his hair, sweeping it to the side, and Osamu can tell his brother _does_ feel slightly insecure about it, despite putting on that cocky, self-assured front.

“Wadaya think, Samu? It looks cool, right?”

“I already toldja what I think. Keep yer grubby hands off of me.” Osamu twists away from Atsumu, who tries to show him more potential hair colors he could turn to.

“I like my hair the way it is,” Osamu says as he turns back to his television show. “I don’t need to change it.”

“Change is good,” Atsumu says before disappearing into their bedroom, probably to take an absurd amount of selfies to send to his friends.

Osamu turns back to the TV, not thinking about potentially changing his hair color—and _definitely_ not thinking about the lingering sensation of Suna’s fingers in his hair.

* * *

Atsumu gets a lot of attention. More than usual. He makes his entrance into school like a goddamn prince, with Osamu trailing behind him. Everyone at school already knows about the volleyball Miya twins, but Atsumu has made it loud and clear: people should know _him_ , Miya Atsumu.

Osamu feels the stares and hears the whispers. There are extra lingering eyes on Atsumu’s stupid yellow hair, and as he garners more attention, the lingering self-consciousness Atsumu first expressed upon dying his hair begins to fade. He turns more and more into his annoying, narcissistic self, and Osamu has to squash the temptation to grab Atsumu by his brassy new hair and yank some sense into him.

“I take it back, Samu.” Atsumu flips his hair to the side once again and Osamus quashes the urge to yank at it. “Ya don’t hafta dye yer hair if ya don’t want.”

“Thanks for your permission.”

“Since it’s been widely accepted that I’m now the cool one of us.”

“Whatever makes ya feel better about droppin’ a thousand yen on yer dumb hairstyle.”

“Does this mean yer gonna unblock my phone number now?”

Osamu rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone. Truth be told, he’d kind of forgotten that he’d blocked it in the first place. No wonder his phone has been suspiciously quiet. “Huh. Maybe you _will_ actually get white day confessions this year.” Atsumu’s eyes light up the same way they do whenever they score against a challenging opponent.

“I know, right? Who could resist stunnin’ and breathtakin’ looks like mine?”

“Never mind. Yer number’s still blocked."

“Don’t be jealous.”

“Yer delusional.”

“This could be you, too.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Seriously, Tsumu, you are…” Osamu’s voice drifts as he slides open the door to his classroom. Suna’s already there, mindlessly tapping his pencil against the edge of his desk, chin rested on his palm as he slouches over.

Osamu raises a hand to wave hello, but when Suna glances in their direction, his eyes go straight to Atsumu. He stares unflinchingly, with a blank and funny look that Osamu has never seen on the stoic middle blocker before.

A prickle crawls across Osamu’s spine as Suna doesn’t even spare him a glance.

It isn’t a pleasant feeling.

A shit-eating grin crawls across Atsumu’s face, and he raises an eyebrow. “See somethin’ ya like, Rintarou?”

Suna blinks a few times, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Though his face is as impassive as ever, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes Osamu’s stomach twist.

“You really do look like a discount combee,” he finally says, and Osamu releases a breath.

“Yer a big fat jerk, Rin!”

Osamu cracks a small smile.The smile slides off his lips when he sees Suna’s eyes lingering on Atsumu again as he turns to go to class.

It really, really, _really_ shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t bother him that everyone unanimously and begrudgingly accepts that Atsumu’s hair looks halfway decent. It shouldn’t bother him that Atsumu’s loud and brash personality is only further amplified by his ridiculous hair color, and it shouldn’t bother him that there are more and more people staring.

And it _definitely_ shouldn’t bother him when, during practice, he sees Suna’s eyes once again lingering on the back of Atsumu’s head. Now that he’s seen that look the first time, Osamu cannot unsee it.

He’d told Atsumu that he wasn’t jealous.

But he is. He totally is. And it’s not because of the attention Atsumu’s getting from his fan girls or the lingering looks of people in the hallway, or the new Instagram post that has blown up on Atsumu’s profile.

No, Miya Osamu is jealous because it catches the attention of Suna Rintarou, one of the best middle blockers in all of Japan’s high school volleyball scene and his best friend.

Suna hadn’t said anything to Atsumu’s face since the discount combee comment, but with Suna, Osamu’s learned, words aren’t everything. Because Suna is distracted during practice, nearly messing up three quick combo plays in a row, earning himself an earful from Atsumu about how much he sucks. Suna doesn’t reply, which is his usual response when playing subpar to his incredible skills. Unlike his usual indifference, though, Suna merely stares harder, eyes glued to Atsumu’s temple. Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice.

But, of course, Osamu does.

And he is fucking jealous.

The realization that he’s jealous is enough to make Osamu feel paralyzed with fear and panic. Does this mean he actually cares about Suna seeing him in a more-than-friends way? Does this mean he _wants_ to be seen in a more-than-friends way? Why does it matter what Suna thinks of his hair, anyway? Suna had said the dark hair suited him, but the looks he keeps sending Atsumu’s hair say otherwise.

Whatever it is, Osamu decides to put an end for it once and for all.

In between practice sets, Osamu digs out his phone, punches in the keyboard, and dials the salon for an appointment the next day. The only time available is right after school, so he’ll have to miss practice, but whatever—he’ll tell coach he has an appointment.

Because if he can’t beat Atsumu at whatever game he’s playing, he can, at the very least, join him.

* * *

Osamu consults with the hairstylist, a young man with long auburn hair swept back in a ponytail, about what color would best suit his features. He has a feeling Atsumu didn’t even try to do that, since the hairstylist suggests something warm and neutral.

In the end, Osamu agrees to the gray dye. It’s the one that closely suits his look, whatever that may be. His scalp tingles with the bleach and the smell is so unpleasant and stings his nose that Osamu decides he’ll never put himself through it again, if he can avoid it.

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s up to, not even Atsumu, who keeps bombarding his phone with messages about why he disappeared immediately after school, doesn’t he know he can’t just skip volleyball practice, why wouldn’t he tell Atsumu where he was going. He’s certainly clingier than Osamu appreciates, although he's sure that, eventually, when the time comes, he'll miss Atsumu's clinginess, too.

Osamu ignores him, closing his eyes to let the bleach do its work.

* * *

Halfway through practice, Osamu strolls in. His hair appointment was quicker than he expected and even if he can’t squeeze in a full practice, he might as well show up late—it’s not like he has anything else to do, anyway. The smell of sweat lingering in the air, combined with the persistent thudding of volleyballs against hardwood floors, has always brought Osamu comfort, even in the wake of a drastic new hairdo.

“Oi, there ya—” Atsumu’s eyes widen comically. “Samu! What the hell? _That’s_ where ya went to today! Why didn’tja tell me!”

“I don’t gotta tell ya everythin’, do I?” Osamu pulls off his bag and sits on the floor to slip on his sneakers, as the whole Inarizaki team watches him. They’re stunned into a rare moment of silence. Even Kita stares, eyebrows lifted in surprise with the faintest of smiles ghosting the edges of his lips. Osamu isn’t used to people staring at him, so he fixes his focus on tying his shoelaces. His cheeks warm slightly at the attention.

“Whoa,” Gin says. “Ya look cool, Osamu-kun!”

“Better than a discount combee,” Ren agrees.

“Shut yer trap,” Atsumu says as he squats in front of Osamu and squints. “Wow, Samu. Ya actually did it. I totally called it. Thanks, Samu. Ya just won me enough money to cover my next touch-up appointment. I’ll even cover yers, too. Guess it’s the least I can do.” He turns around and yells to their team, “Y’all better pay up what I’m owed!”

Osamu narrows his eyes. “Don’t tell me _you_ participated in the pool,” he says.

“How didja even know about that?”

“Yer a jerk.”

Atsumu gives him a wide smirk as he reaches forward to muss up Osamu’s hair. “Looks good, Samu. Not as good as mine, of course, but it ain’t half bad.”

Osamu shoves him away, rolling his eyes as his twin squeals and falls flat on his ass. “Yer annoying.”

When he stands up and shakes off his jacket, he becomes keenly aware of Suna staring at him. Osamu’s heart picks up, but he stubbornly refuses to break eye contact when their gazes meet, raising an eyebrow instead in a challenge. Suna’s default expression stares back, and maybe Osamu’s imagining it, but there’s an extra intensity in his gaze.

Suna, surprisingly, is the one that breaks it first. He has his hands tucked into the waistband of his shorts as he slouches, clearing his throat when he says, “It looks good.”

Osamu suppresses a stupidly large smile and fails to hide the fluster that worms its way under his cheeks. “Thanks.”

* * *

The attention is new. It’s different from the attention they get when they play volleyball on court, where Osamu becomes so enraptured in the game that he can’t think of anything else. People aren’t just looking at Atsumu now. It’s Osamu, too, and he doesn’t know how he feels about it. Being an accessory for most of his life has not prepared him for this. He’s never been a narcissistic person, but maybe this whole hair thing is turning him into one, because every time there’s a reflective surface, Osamu catches himself looking. He’ll chastise himself for being as self-absorbed as his twin, but not before feeling a wave of satisfaction that spins underneath his chest for doing something unpredictable for once.

He’ll never admit it to Atsumu, but he knows that over half the reason why he’s bold enough to do anything is because Atsumu does it first, and he has to catch up. Back when they were kids, it was always Osamu in the lead, always Osamu who was better and smarter and faster and stronger. But as the years have passed, Atsumu has demonstrated his hunger for doing more, pushing Osamu further and further, and it’s becoming more and more of a struggle to keep up.

But Osamu isn’t one to bow out of a petty competition so easily, not when he gets a rush of exhilaration each time. Not when the constant stares get him to straighten his back a bit more and lift his chin up with pride.

Those stares pale in comparison to the way Osamu’s chest reacts to Suna’s intense gaze, which grows with every minute Osamu sits in class. Suna’s usually the one dozing off in class or doodling in the margins of his notebook, _not_ staring at Osamu. For the first time since they’ve been playing volleyball together, Osamu experiences the intimidation that Suna’s eyes hold. Like he’s ready to jump him at any given moment. Talk about being able to exert pressure.

As their teacher pauses her lecture to sift through some of her notes, Osamu turns to his left and whispers, “See something ya like, Rintarou?” It’s supposed to be a joke, referencing Atsumu’s flirtatious remark. But it doesn’t come out as a joke. In fact, it comes out as the opposite of a joke, a serious question, tinged with self-doubt, and Osamu cringes. Leave it to him to sound like an absolute _loser_.

Suna quickly glances away. “Sorry. I’m staring a lot, aren’t I?”

“’Sokay. I know it prolly looks weird.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Yer starin’ more than ya stared at Tsumu; it’s fine if ya think the gray’s a weird color—”

“I’m not staring because it looks weird, Osamu.” Suna looks forward, and if Osamu didn't know better, he’d think there was a faint tinge of pink decorating his cheeks. “I was staring at Atsumu because _his_ hair looks weird.” Suna laughs breathily. “You look good, though.”

Oh.

His cheeks flare, but for a completely different reason. The childish feeling of jealousy gives way to embarrassment. Leave it to Osamu to overthink things, to overanalyze things, to read into things so much that he impulsively does the _same exact thing_ as his twin brother.

Miya Osamu, known for being level-headed and controlled in contrast to his turbulent twin brother, is, at the end of the day, bred from the same DNA, so of course he’s as much of a clown as Atsumu.

“Are you gonna keep it that way forever, you think?” Suna asks, yanking Osamu from his thoughts.

He shrugs. “At least while Tsumu and I still play volleyball together.”

“Hmm.” Suna doesn’t say anything further, and Osamu doesn’t elaborate. Like most things with Suna, he doesn’t have to.

* * *

Their third year, spring: they make it to the semi-finals before Inarizaki is knocked out of the tournament. Atsumu is awarded _Best High School Setter_ , and Osamu claps for him under the bright lights of the arena. A weight has been lifted off his shoulders, replaced by a sense of loss.

The weekend after, Osamu strolls home with freshly dyed hair.

Suna is waiting for him on his bed, flipping lazily through the latest issue of _Volleyball Monthly_. When he looks up, his gaze softens.

“Ah. I missed your hair.”

Osamu sits on the bed beside him. His fingers subconsciously scratches at the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s been over two years since he first dyed it, so it’s weird having his natural color once again. “You think I made the right choice?”

“About your hair color? Or quitting volleyball?”

Osamu shrugs.

Suna smiles. He props himself up with an arm, reaching for Osamu. He slides his hand over Osamu’s and his thumb strokes the fresh buzz of his undercut. “This always suited you the best,” he murmurs, leaning forward to place a kiss on his temple, affirming what Osamu has known all along: he’s simple and uncomplicated, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

**Author's Note:**

> "discount combee" is the only insult i'll accept in reference to atsumu's pre-time-skip hair.
> 
> Many thanks to [lunarins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarins) ([@hanoorins on twitter](https://twitter.com/hanoorins)) who made me die fuckn laughing with Gin's infamous Atsumu-combee photoshop job.   
> 


End file.
